


Winter's Kiss

by Linger1536



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Stark reunion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:43:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linger1536/pseuds/Linger1536
Summary: Sansa's soft hair brushes against Jon's burned hand as she twists out of his reach, shaking her head furiously at him. “No, you took the easy way out.”Jon's dark eyebrows come together above his eyes. “Easy?” he repeats incredulously. “Sansa, nothing that I did was easy!”She scoffs loudly at him, turning around to set her cup down. “No of course not,” she says in a voice filled with such venom it has Jon wincing. “I suppose leaving the North and all its troubles to take up with a foreign invader is not easy.”Jon's hands fall limply to his sides and he steps back as if she has wounded him. “You know about that?”Sansa confronts Jon about him bending the knee to Daenerys.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones!
> 
> After the last episode I needed to write something to let of some steam after the disappointment this season has been. To those of you who are reading my other Jon/Sansa story Ghosts, don't worry I'm currently working on the upcoming chapter :)
> 
> Edit 18/6-18, keep in mind that the first chapter was written before season 7 of GoT had finished which is why things differ slightly from the show.

They arrive on a cold winter's day with cutting currents of wind tossing the snow into the air around them as the gate falls shut behind them. The cold clings to them, painting their cheeks red and and tinting their hair white while ice has formed in their beards.

Sansa's eyes are just as harsh as the northern winds as she watches Jon dismount from his horse, throwing a glance behind him at Davos who gives him an encouraging nod.

Jon's grey gaze falls on the the hostile faces of the northern lords as he looks around him, before they land on the three of them and for a moment it is as if the ice at his feet has closed in around him. The worry seems to momentarily fade from his face as his eyes travel from Bran sitting in his chair in front of Sansa, and then to Arya who is standing on Bran's left. His lips twitch and then his face breaks out into a splitting smile as he drinks in the sight of his fierce little sister.

The snow crunch underneath his boots as he takes a step forward. Arya rolls forward on her feet, her expression mirroring Jon's and in that moment it is as if she is a spirited carefree girl again with nothing but admiration for her older brother.

There's a flash of a black cloak as an older man steps into Jon's path, spitting onto the ground by his feet. Jon flinches, staring down at the glob with an unreadable expression on his face while Arya's hand closes around Needle's hilt.

“Arya,” Sansa warns through gritted teeth, watching Jon's Adam's apple bob as he swallows before lifting his eyes to the three of them.

His gaze falls onto Sansa and regret flashes across his face as his breath leaves him in a cloud of smoke and he closes his eyes, shoulders sagging. Sansa keeps her back straight, eyes cool as she watches him while her hands unintentionally tightens around the handles of Bran's wheelchair.

Arya tears her eyes away from Jon to shoot Sansa and Bran an infuriated glare before she promptly makes her way across the courtyard towards Jon. His eyes flicker open at the sound of her approaching footsteps and his lips part about to say something but she does not give him the opportunity, flinging herself up into his arms.

Jon staggers backwards, wrapping his arms tightly around her slight frame and he hides his face in her hair, spinning them around. They stay like that for several moments, clinging to each other as if they are never letting the other go again, and it is only the sounds of the wheels on Bran's chair turning that has Jon lifting his head to stare at his brother with tears glistering in his eyes.

“Bran,” he croaks, still hugging Arya to him.

Bran's lips curve up into a kind smile but his eyes are distant – lost in another time – as he looks up at the man he had thought to be his brother. “Hello, Jon.”

Jon lets out a choked sound that is a mix between a sob and a laugh and stumbles forward with Arya still clinging to him. He falls onto his knees on the snow covered ground, throwing one arm around Bran, hugging him to him.

Sansa watches with an impassive expression as Arya finally looks up from Jon's shoulder long enough to throw one of her arms around Bran's shoulders, pulling the two men close to her, bumping their foreheads together as her eyes – so like Jon's – dance with a carefree joy Sansa has not seen in them since before they left for King's Landing.

The anger in the peoples eyes gathered there in the courtyard seems to soften at the heart rendering sight but then someone scowls and there is the hissing whisper of, “Dragon lover.”

Sansa's chest heaves with the deep breath she takes before stepping forward, hands clenched underneath her cloak. “Perhaps it would be for the best if we took this inside...”

Jon's head snaps up at the sound of her voice and his eyes search her face but she does not allow any emotion to slip through her mask of steel. “Sansa-”

She takes hold of Bran's wheelchair, turning him around. “Come.”

* * *

 The fire crackles softly in the hearth as Sansa has food brought into the council chamber. Arya devours her meal in a matter of minutes, sucking the juices of the meat off of her fingers as she turns her gaze on Jon, watching him prod at his own food with a frown marring his features.

“Did you really bend the knee?”

Jon sets his knife down, sighing as he runs his hands over his tired face. “Arya, it's not as simple as you think...”

The chair creaks as Arya leans back in it, tilting her head to the side. “But you did give the North to Daenerys Targaryen?”

Jon lifts his head to look at her through strands of dark hair that has escaped his bun and fallen into his eyes. “Aye, I bent the knee.”

Sansa's chair scrapes loudly against the stone floor as she stands and the hem of her dress ghosts against the stones as she steps over to the window. Jon's dark eyes follow her, sadness and desperation swirling around in their deep depths.

Bran watches the two of them carefully before he turns his attention to Jon. “The northerners are not happy,” he says in a placid voice that is jarringly alien to Jon's ears. “They have branded you a traitor.”

Jon nods, having come to terms with this fact to the lull of the waves and the warmth of a naked body curled up next to him. “They would not have had me as their King once they found about my true parentage-”

“You're still a Stark!” Arya objects vehemently, shooting to her feet as if she is ready to fight whoever might object against her but she is only met by silence.

Jon's lips curls at the corner of his mouth but it is only the shadow of the smile that once would have been there at his sister's words. “It is of little matter now. I did what I had to do and I knew the consequences.”

The chain around Sansa's throat rattles as she takes hold of the needle pendant, twisting it around in her tight grip. They turn their attention to her, watching her stiff shoulders move with each breath she she takes, Jon's eyes soften at the sight and he parts his lips, wetting the bottom one with his tongue.

“Sansa...”

Arya watches the two of them carefully, one eyebrow raised. “They made her Queen...” there is an underlying tone of resentment in her voice and she looks at Jon with an anticipation in her eyes, as if waiting for him to turn and look at her with the same emotions mirrored on his face but when he does not a flicker of surprise passes across her face.

Jon nods, smiling sadly to himself. “I cannot think of anyone more deserving of the title.”

The needle slips out of Sansa's grip, falling to her side with a soft thud as she turns around to look Jon with a steely expression. “Do not,” she hisses, glaring down at him, “mistake this for something that _I_ wanted.”

She takes several large strides, crossing the room to the door which she slips out through without another word said to the three of them. Arya stares after her with badly concealed surprise while Bran turns his hface to Jon, whose face has grown a shade paler as he stares blankly at the closed door.

“Go,” Bran urges Jon with a small smile. “Talk to her.”

 

Jon does not call out for her as he watches her red hair shimmer in the light of the torches lined on the walls as she disappears around the corner, instead he takes his time steeling himself as he slowly approaches her chamber. Once outside her room he hesitates, raising one hand slowly to knock at the door but he cannot seem to be able to make himself rap his knuckles against the wood.

There had been a time when he would not have had to knock, when he could have entered without her permission only to find her looking up at him from whatever she had been doing with a delighted smile. There had been a time when he would seek her out to share his troubles, to seek consul and comfort... 

He presses his hand against the door, leaning his forehead against it as he thinks of that time, yearning desperately for this time to be no different than those before but it is...

“Sansa,” he calls hoarsely in a voice that sounds far to desperate even to his own ears. “Sansa, can I come in?” He swallows visibly at the silence that follows, squeezing his eyes closed. “ _Please_.”

He looses track of how much time passes before he finally hears the sound of soft footfalls on the other side of the door before the sound of the latch being removed. He steps back just in time for the door to swing open revealing his cousin standing before him with her hair falling in a slight disarray down her shoulders as she stares at him with the same stoic expression she had worn as he had ridden through the gates.

She does not say anything as she steps aside, allowing him to enter before she closes the door, putting the latch back in place.

Jon's gaze falls onto the neatly made bed and then onto the many scrolls spread out across the desk and he wonders if perhaps she has had as much trouble sleeping as he has ever since he left Winterfell.

Sansa steps around him and he catches the faint scent of roses coming off of her as she walks over to the desk where she keeps a pitcher of wine, pouring herself a cup. She does not say anything as she raises the cup to her lips, taking several large gulps as she watches him over the rim with her deep blue eyes.

A droplet of red still clings to her moist lips as she lowers the cup, clutching it tightly in her grip. “What do you want Jon?”

He takes one small careful step forward, searching her face. “I want to explain myself.”

Sansa lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “There is nothing to explain,” she tells him, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Sansa,” Jon takes another step and reaches out for her with trembling hands. “I did what I thought was best.”

Sansa's soft hair brushes against Jon's burned hand as she twists out of his reach, shaking her head furiously at him. “No, you took the easy way out.”

Jon's dark eyebrows come together above his eyes. “Easy?” he repeats incredulously. “Sansa, nothing I did was easy!”

She scoffs loudly at him, turning around to set her cup down. “No of course not,” she says in a voice filled with such venom it has Jon wincing. “I suppose leaving the North and all its troubles to take up with a foreign invader is not easy.”

Jon's hands fall limply to his sides and he steps back as if she has wounded him. “You know about that?”

Sansa's lips curve up into a bitter smile. “About how the King in the North took one look at the Dragon Queen and was so swayed by her beauty that he forgot his plight and earlier promises to his people? _Yes_ ,” she tells him, walking over to the hearth, staring down into the fire, “The whole North knows about it.”

Jon does not try to approach her again, instead he stays where he is watching her with an agitated expression. “That is not what happened,” he tells her gruffly.

She raises one eyebrow at him. “No? I have heard many accounts that say otherwise.”

One dark curl falls over Jon's left eye as he turns his face towards the fire, watching the flames as they twist and turn. “We need her, Sansa. We _need_ her dragons if we are going to survive.”

Fury seems to bubble up within Sansa and her eyes blaze just like the fire as she snaps, “So strike an alliance with her but do not give her the North!”

Jon's shakes his head at her, trying to make her see sense. “I tried to! Daenerys is too proud, too entitled, she would never have helped us if I didn't bend the knee.” He meets her furious gaze head on. “Sansa, you haven't seen the Night King's army but I have... and I know we cannot fight him without Daenerys dragons.”

Something inside of Sansa seems to snap. It is as if all the fear, worry and anger she has had to carry around since she learned of his stupid, _stupid_ decision to go beyond the Wall has finally reached its boiling point. “What were you thinking!?” she exclaims, stalking up to him, mouth pressed into a thin line and cheeks red with anger. “I told you you had to be smart and you decide to go wight hunting?”

Jon lowers his head. “I had no choice.”

She lifts her hands to her face, pressing her palms against it. “No choice,” she mumbles to herself, dragging her hands down her cheeks. “Hunting for a wight shouldn't have been an option!”

Jon straightens his shoulders giving her the same look he had given her the night before the Battle of Bastards and the day when he had decided to ride south. “It had to be done.”

“You could have died!” she shouts loosing her composure before averting her eyes from his startled ones. Her hands tremble and she clenches them at her side, knuckles growing white with the strain, as she thinks of all the sleepless night she has spent in this very room, tossing and turning thinking of him lying broken with blood frozen to his body, waking screaming to dreams with him in them, skin pale and cold with his eyes unnaturally blue. “How could you be so stupid?!”

Her fist slams into his chest and he grunts but it is more from surprise than from anything else as she beats relentlessly at it. “Don't you ever think before you act!” She looks just as wild as a wolf, eyes flashing with fury and fear while her hair flies around her like a flaming halo. “You are just as rash as Arya!”

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, face etched with remorse for the pain he has caused.

One of Sansa's fists slams into his jerkin. “Stupid!” Her nails dig into her palms, drawing blood. “Stupid!” The blow hits just above one of his scars. “ _Stupid!_ ” She slams her hands against his chest, putting all of her weight into it.

Jon stumbles backwards, catching onto her forearms, pulling her to him, forcing her into a hug. She struggles against him scratching and clawing but he refuses to let go. “I'm sorry,” he whispers, lips brushing against her ear, face twisted in agony. “I'm sorry.”

A sob escapes past her lips, wracking her body and she spreads her fingers out over his chest, pressing her palm over his heart as if to reassure herself that it is still beating.

Jon's head drops onto her shoulder, one hand twining in her hair, smelling the scent of snow and winter roses that still lingers on her skin evoking the memory of lips brushing softly against his tasting like tears.

Sansa exhales deeply and her body relaxes with it and she closes her eyes, whispering, “I thought you would die.”

Jon's arms tighten around her pulling her closer to him. “Aye,” he whispers. “I thought so too.”

She pulls her head back slightly, lifting her hands to his face, cupping his cheeks as she forces him to look at her. “You didn't have to go wight hunting,” she says once his grey eyes locks onto her blue ones. “You didn't have to lie with her...”

His breath ghosts against her face as he leans in resting his forehead against hers and he makes no attempt to hide the guilt that flashes in his eyes.

She remains quiet searching his face intently before finally parting her lips. “She thinks she has laid claim to the North by claiming you.”

“Maybe that is what I want her to think.”

An emotion flickers in her eyes just for a moment before she manages to quell it, hide it away behind her mask but it is too late because Jon still manages to recognise it for the glimmer of hope that it is.

“You are no longer king.”

Jon's nose brushes against hers as he shifts his weight closer. “I never wanted to be.”

Her eyes are distant as she says, “Neither did I but I will not bend the knee, she will have to burn me alive.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this just took on a life of its own and yeah it's not the most polished thing I've written but I actually enjoyed it.  
> Let me know what you thought! Sorry about the title, I really couldn't come up with anything.  
> I also just want to apologise for the spelling mistakes that might be in this, English is not my native language.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like writing another chapter for this, I hope you enjoy it even if it's mostly nonsense.

Sansa stands by the heart tree as snow falls around her, covering the ancient forest in a white blanket.

Jon approaches her slowly, eyes warily watching her.

She stands with her eyes closed and rests her hands against the tree's bone white trunk as if in prayer. “Do you think they can hear us?” she asks, brows furrowing. “The gods of old.”

He shifts his weight and parts his lips but the snow steals his words away with a kiss to his lips.

A northern wind passes through the branches, rustling the leaves and Sansa leans in closer, listening for whispers.

“I don't know,” Jon murmurs.

She ghosts her fingers over the weeping face. “Bran said that there is no limit to time.”

He reaches out for her, and his hand trembles in the air where it hovers above her shoulder. “Sansa...”

She leans forward, resting her forehead against the tree's trunk. “I wish they would listen.”

Jon eyes flitter from her to the weeping face. “What are you praying for?”

She turns to look at him with cool eyes. “For them to mend the mistakes that has been made.”

Jon's hand falls back to his side. “My mistakes?”

She sighs, trailing a finger over the weeping face and it comes back stained red. “Yours... mine...”

He swallows, nodding stiffly. “I see.”

She tilts her head to the side, peering up at him curiously. “Do you?”

The snow crunch underneath his boots as he takes a step closer to her. “What would you have me do?” He asks, running an agitated hand through his hair.

Her face grows hard as she turns towards him fully. “Not give away the North to a foreign invader.”

Jon's eyes flash with exasperation. “We need her, Sansa.”

“We do not need someone who burns people on a whim,” she says and the heart tree echoes her sentiments with rustling leaves.

He shifts his gaze from hers, setting it on a snow covered branch to her right, shoulders tensing. “I can control her.”

Sansa's laughter cuts through the air, cold and harsh. “Don't be as stupid as all the other men who has fallen at her feet, thinking they can quell the madness.”

His gaze lowers to his boots and a muscle in his jaw  jumps as he grinds his teeth against each other.

“You know I'm right, don't you?” she asks in a voice that is still as harsh as before but when Jon looks up her gaze has softened and he sees the desperation in her eyes.

“Sansa...”

“I cannot loose you too,” her words steals away whatever thought he had had, and he stares at her with parted lips as she blinks, shifting her gaze from his before she turns her back to him, pressing her forehead against the heart tree.

“It doesn't matter what I do though,” he whispers, breath tickling against her neck as he comes to stand behind her, “I am no longer King.”

She scoffs, pressing herself closer to the tree as if she wishes to mould herself to it, become a part of the voices. “Of course it matters.” Her next words are nothing but faint whispers as she moves her lips against the bone white trunk. “I need you by my side.”

He closes his eyes at her words, tilting his face up towards the white sky. “I'm trying to save you.”

When he opens his eyes to look at her she has turned around and meets his gaze with the same anguished expression on her face as his. “And I'm trying to save you.”

He shifts closer, fingers grazing her gloved hand. “She will burn you if you don't comply.”

Her hand twitches underneath his. “The northerners will brand you a traitor... you know what happens to traitors.”

He shakes his head, reaching out with one hand to stroke a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. “It won't matter unless we win the war against the Others.”

She twists her hands around his cloak, tugging him closer to her, feeling the warmth that is coming off of his body. “The war does not end with the Night King, you know that.”

He grasps her face in his hands. “And it does not begin with your death,” he hisses, clutching at her. “Do you understand me?”

She lifts her chin, eyes cool. “No, but it will either end with my death or hers.”

“It does _not_ end with yours,” he grinds out through gritted teeth, eyes flashing.

She lifts her hands to his face, pulling him down closer to her so that their breaths mingle together in a cloud of smoke. “Or yours, I am _not_ doing this without you.”

His gaze softens as he leans forward, resting his forehead against hers. “We are back where we started,” he chuckles darkly.

She brushes her nose against his and his gaze flutter down to meet hers. “Then we will save each other and the North,” she says as tilts her face up to brush her lips against his.

He sighs into the kiss, twisting one hand in her long hair as he pushes her back against the heart tree.

Sansa pulls him with her, fingers twining in his curls as she tugs him closer, he follows willingly groaning quietly as he deepens the kiss while she presses herself against him, desperately wanting to loose herself in him until there is no telling where she begins and he ends and no Night King or Dragon Queen will be able to make them part.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones!
> 
> I know there are no northern lights in ASOIF but I took the liberty of adding them, and some of my own country's belief regarding them.

A warm hand closes around Sansa's pale wrist as she slips out from underneath the warm covers of her bed. “Stay,” comes the mumbled plea from the man lying in the bed still half asleep.

She turns, stroking a hand through his dark curls. “I'll be right back,” she promises.

He mutters something, eyes closing before he releases her hand, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow.

Sansa's bare feet pad softly against the stone floor as she makes her way over to the window overlooking the dark grounds below. The darkness in the room cling to her, obscuring her naked body from prying eyes as she looks up at the starry night sky.

It takes mere seconds for her blue eyes to fall on the the light dancing across the sky, shimmering in different shades of green, blue and purple.

Condensation begins to gather on the window as Sansa leans forward, pressing her burning forehead against the cool glass while a lone tear slides down her cheek.

She stays there until the chill creeping in through the spring at the bottom of the window becomes too much and until the light has disappeared out of sight, but just when she is about to turn with a hitching breath two strong arms encircle her from behind, pulling her back against a warm chest.

“I hope you didn't whistle,” Jon whispers softly in her ear.

Sansa rests her hands on his arms. “No.”

“Good,” he mumbles against her skin as he nudges away a few strands of hair with his nose to press a kiss behind her ear. “I wouldn't want the gods to steal you away.” He pulls back slightly when his words does not draw a laugh from her. “Sansa,” he begins, voice serious,”what's wrong?”

He turns her around in his arms, forcing her to look at him but it takes several moments before she raises her eyes to look into his grey ones.

“Tell me,” Jon urges, brows furrowing while he lifts his scarred hand to tuck away a strand of hair behind her ear before cupping her cheek.

Sansa sighs, pressing her hands to his naked chest, tracing her fingers over one of his scars. “It is noth-”

“Sansa.”

Her gaze flit to his as her touch send shivers through his body. “I had a nightmare.”

Jon pulls her close, wrapping both of his arms around her tightly as if he wishes to mould her to him and Sansa goes willingly, pressing her face into the crock of his neck, smelling the scent of sweat that still clings to his skin.

Jon takes her by the hand and leads her back to the bed where he pulls the furs aside and tugs Sansa down beside him, resting her back against his chest while one of his legs slips in between hers before he wraps one arm around her waist.

Sansa rests her head on her arm, eyes watching the dying embers in the hearth. “It wasn't about Ramsay...”

Jon's chest stops moving against her back for a moment before his voice murmurs close to her ear, “What was it about?”

“Winterfell burning.”

She twists around at his silence so that she is facing him, pillowing her cheek on one hand, watching him intently.

His brows come together above his troubled eyes as he parts his lips. “It was just a dream.”

Something akin to disappointment flashes in Sansa's eyes and Jon closes his own for a moment regretting his words. “We will change it,” he whispers instead.

Sansa's hand unconsciously reaches for the needle of her pendant, but it closes over bare skin since the pendant lies discarded somewhere amongst the pile of their clothes that had been thrown so carelessly onto the floor at the side of the bed. “There is too much unease.”

Jon moves closer, cupping her cheek with his hand, running his thumb along her cheekbone. “We need to provide a unified front.”

Sansa's breath tickles against Jon's lips as she sighs. “I know. You are right, but...” She pulls back slightly and Jon's hand falls with a soft thump onto the mattress beside them while she closes her eyes.

“But what?” Jon asks with an edge to his voice, reaching out with his thumb to smooth out the crease that has appeared between Sansa's eyebrows.

She turns her head, pressing her lips to the inside of his wrist. “We should stop this,” her whispered words are etched onto his skin, robbing him of the little warmth that remains in his veins.

“What?” The furs fall down around him as he sits up, staring down at her incredulously. _“What?”_

Sansa flinches at the hurt in his voice, closing her own eyes to obscure the pain in them from him. “It is for the best.”

“No,” Jon hisses, shaking his head before grabbing hold of her arms pulling her up beside him, “no, it's not.” He slips his hands through her hair, grasps her shoulders and runs them up and down her arms before cupping her face. “ _You_ know it isn't.”

Sansa's breath hitches and her hands fold into fists around the furs in her lap before she opens her eyes to meet Jon's frantic gaze with a steely one of her own. “Yes, it is,” she says firmly, pulling out of his hold, wrapping her arms around herself. “Daenerys will not take kindly to this.”

“Daenerys won't find out!” Jon exclaims, running an agitated hand through his unruly hair.

Sansa shakes her head at him causing her long hair to fly around her, brushing against Jon's bare skin. “We cannot take such foolish risks any more.”

Jon shakes his head at her before falling back onto his knees, lowering his head. “Don't do this,” he pleads in a broken whisper.

Sansa tilts her head back, closing her eyes to prevent herself from crying but a lone tear still manages to escape, spilling down her cheek and onto the bedding. “I don't want this,” she mumbles, teeth tearing into her quivering lower lip.

Jon scrambles forward, gathering Sansa into his arms before resting his burning forehead against her cool one. “Then don't do something that will make us both miserable,” he begs, breath ghosting against her lips.

Sansa reaches up with trembling hands, grasping onto his shoulders as she leans into him, allowing him to trail kisses along her cheekbone down onto her lips. She slips her finger into the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging at them as Jon pulls her into his lap, running one hand up her scarred back while he cups the back of her head with his other one. “Our misery does not matter if it keeps everyone alive,” she gasps, rocking against him as he suckles at the skin of her neck.

Jon shakes his head, lips travelling down her skin leaving a burning trail behind as he whispers his objections while Sansa arches her back, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure once his mouth finds its way to her right breast. He leaves a feather-light kiss to the crescent moon scar at the top of it and then there is no stopping the tears spilling down Sansa's cheeks.

She runs her fingers through his hair, holding him to her, kissing the crown of his head. “I love you.”

Jon pulls back, tilting his face up to brush his lips softly against hers just as she slips down onto him and they both sigh with content. His hooded eyes seek hers and their gazes lock as they move against one another. “I love you too,” he murmurs and he is not sure whether it is his own tears or hers that he tastes on his tongue.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything before the word "but" is horseshit, right?  
> I apologies for the rather anticlimactic chapter, I haven't written in months and wasn't really able to find a good flow when writing this. I just want to make clear that this story will mostly if not completely only focus on Jon and Sansa's interactions, so it's basically just small snippets of their lives playing out.


End file.
